


Dragon Drabbles

by BrynTWedge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Domestic Fluff, Drabbles, Dragon AU, Dragon Greg Lestrade, Dragon Mycroft Holmes, Dragon Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-30 20:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13959066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: Collection of short works about the lives of dragon Greg and Mycroft.





	1. Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft lazed under the shade of the large oak in the gardens near their home. It was a fairly warm day, and he languidly enjoyed the speckles of sun breaking through the leaves to dapple his scales. 

Gregory had shared a lovely picnic with him, and was currently playing with a rope toy with a local dog they were familiar with. His husband was always much more energetic than he was, but Mycroft liked to blame it on genetics. He was, after all, much more reptilian in nature than his fluffy-coated husband. A good day of sunbathing was more his taste than spending time wrestling an enthusiastic Labrador in the grass. He did rather enjoy watching Gregory’s vigour, however. He gazed fondly at the muscles rippling under his husband’s silver-grey fur, and had to be sure not to get too distracted by the view. 

There was a growl, and then an exhale from Gregory has he threw the toy high into the air for the dog to chase. Unfortunately for Mycroft, the rope headed in his direction; however, it landed in the branches of the tree under which he was nestled. A leaf filtered down and landed on his nose. He shook it off and huffed at his husband, who approached him with a broad grin. 

“Hey, Myc, sorry! At least it wasn’t the rope that hit your snout,” Greg said with a chuckle. He was hot and sweaty, and so knew Mycroft would not appreciate being cuddled at this time. 

“Indeed. However, your playmate seems quite distressed that his toy is out of reach,” Mycroft commented, seeing the yellow lab jump up against the tree’s trunk and bark at the rope. 

“Ah, it’s not out of reach! I’ll just go up and get it.”

“Gregory, that is not advisable.”

“Nonsense! I’m fit as ever!” Greg beamed as he spoke, puffing out his muscled chest. 

“Whilst I do not deny that,” Mycroft said, eyeing said chest fondly, “I meant that you would not be able to get back down. You could injure yourself. It is quite a height to fall from.” 

“You worry too much, love,” Greg chided fondly, and pecked a quick kiss onto Mycroft’s cheek before making a leap up towards the first branch. He didn’t quite make it, and so found himself sliding down the bark, claws scratching flakes down. 

“I worry the right amount concerning your safety.”

“Oh, stop being a spoil sport and give me a boost.” 

“Gregory—”

“Myc, really; I got this.” 

“Very well,” Mycroft said while taking a deep breath to subsequently sigh. “But you are responsible for the consequences.” 

“You forget I was an expert tree climber in my youth.” Greg bragged as he climbed up upon Mycroft’s back. 

“You forget you _were_ in your youth,” Mycroft mumbled to himself. 

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, darling.” 

 

Greg successfully reached the first branch with Mycroft’s aid, and then proceeded to grin down upon his husband. 

“You know, you look gorgeous from up here.”

“How fortunate that requires me to remain upon the ground.”

“Haha, yes, true. But seriously, I love the way your scales glitter in the light. I can see it all at once from here. Just watch, I’ll get that rope in no time!”

Mycroft obeyed, and observed as Gregory clambered from branch to branch ever higher up to fetch the dog toy. With each new level, Mycroft tensed further. 

“You know I won’t come and rescue you, right?” Mycroft shouted, trying to sway Gregory down before he got too high. 

“Won’t need you to!”

“We can merely purchase another toy!” 

“Toby likes this one!”

“Gregory!”

“Can’t hear you!” 

Mycroft snorted, his curled nostrils flaring. He sneered down at the dog sitting at his feet. He rumbled unhappily and growled slightly, uttering to the animal’s innocent face that it would face his wrath if his Gregory was injured fetching the toy. Toby barked in response. 

Before long, the rope dropped to the ground, and Toby rushed to fetch it. Mycroft kept his eyes keenly upon Gregory’s silver body up in the canopy. 

“Careful!” 

“What? Yeah, yeah,” Greg called as he made his way back down. Almost immediately, he slipped and hit the branch he was standing upon, instinctively grasping around it with all four limbs and his tail. 

“Gregory!” Mycroft stood up to lean his front paws against the tree, watching intently. 

“I’m fine, I’m just… nope, can’t move. I’m stuck, Myc.” 

“I _told_ you!”

“I’m not hurt, I’m just stuck!”

“And how are you going to get down, hm?”

“Um… lemme just… um, yeah, ok. Come help me please?”

“I believe I am back to saying ‘I told you’, as I had in fact said I would not venture up there to come to your rescue.”

“I know… but, Myc, you can’t turn down a knight in distress can you?”

“Perhaps a night in the tree will be just what you need to reconsider doing such a thing again,” Mycroft mused. He didn’t really intent to leave his husband up there, but threatening to do so was indeed fun. 

“No, please… don’t leave me up here!”

“Will you promise not to climb trees again?”

“None? Ever?”

“None that you will injure yourself falling from, should it happen.”

Greg considered the promise, hoping to maybe bargain his way into a little more freedom. That was until, however, he saw a line of bull ants marching his way. “Yep, fine, I promise. Now help me down before I get eaten alive!”

“What?”

“There are ants up here!” Greg shouted frantically, and shuffled away from the oncoming parade. He heard Mycroft laugh below him. “Oi! Ants get into my fur and I can’t get them out! They hurt!” 

“Then maybe don’t intrude upon their territory again.”

 

Mycroft drew out his claws and leapt into the tree. He was able to grip at the bark much easier than his husband, having sharp pointed claws instead of rounded ones that Gregory sported. In no time he’d made it to Gregory’s branch, and offered his paw out to help him regain his footing. They climbed back down together, Gregory looking rather sheepish once his paws were back on the ground. 

“Sorry, love,” Greg mumbled. 

“That’s alright. I hope it was punishment enough to discourage you doing so again.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked at him with his blue eyes. Gregory gave him a child-like grin, and shrugged. Mycroft rolled his eyes as Gregory turned away to play with the dog again. Mycroft noticed that he had a large gathering of ants on his behind as he walked, and smiled to himself. If Gregory didn’t think he’d been deterred enough beforehand, he certainly was about to be. 


	2. Honey

Greg was in the kitchen, humming to himself as he prepared dinner. Mycroft walked in, following his nose.   
“Gregory, I told you fried food wasn’t healthy.”  
“And I told you that it was tasty,” Greg answered. He lifted the second batch of chicken out of the deep fryer. “I know you actually love to eat it, so don’t complain.”  
“Very well, but you cannot complain about my belly pudging out, either.”   
“But I love my pudgy little lounge lizard,” Greg cooed, leaning backwards to place a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek.   
“I am not pudgy now!” Mycroft protested, huffing. “The roundness of my stomach is merely a fact of biolo—”  
“Hush, love, I was only playing games with you.”

Greg grinned, and sunk the last batch of chicken into the oil. Mycroft investigated the rest of the kitchen, concluding that Gregory was making Korean chicken for dinner.   
“Dearest, why are you cooking naked?”  
“Because I can.”   
“Yes, but would it not be prudent to cover yourself in case of splatters?” Mycroft tilted his head whilst asking the question, and received a saucy wiggle of his husband’s behind in response.   
“You know I like being splattered on,” Greg teased, chuckling at the flush of red to Mycroft’s face.   
“Hot oil is hardly the same.”   
“True, but it’s fine. Fluffy, remember? I won’t notice a bit of oil.”   
Mycroft hummed to reinforce his stance, not wishing to create an argument. Instead, he looked into the bowl on the bench and poked at it. “Why bother heating the honey beforehand? It’s going into the frypan anyway.” He nudged the bowl again to look at the reduced viscosity of the warmed honey.   
“Would you just let me cook how I want?”  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”  
“I know, but first it was the clothes then the honey—”  
“Curious, only, I swear.”  
Greg sighed and took a breath. “It’s just so that I can stir in the ingredients easier in the bowl instead of doing it in the pan.”   
“Makes sense,” Mycroft said. It didn’t really, as it seemed to just add another dish to be washed in his mind. Then again, Mycroft hated doing the dishes and was forever aware of what he’d have to clean when he cooked. “I can help you? Or I can leave you to it?”  
“Nah, I think I’m alright to do everything. And I’m not mad, by the way. You can stay and watch if you like.”   
Mycroft smiled. He did like to watch his husband’s prowess in the kitchen. He noticed that Greg was getting ready to mix the ingredients for the sauce, and so decided to help by passing him the bowl. It was a mistake. As Mycroft moved to pass the honey, Greg threw himself around to reach for where it had been. The result was honey spilled all down Greg’s chest, and running down his belly.   
“Oh, god, Greg, I’m so sorry.”  
“Bollocks!”  
“I was only trying—”  
“I know, Myc, I know. It’s fine. Just… sticky. Ew.”   
“Here,” Mycroft said, as he lifted the chicken out of the fryer and turned the switch off. “Let me help you with that. It was my fault, after all.”   
“Hehe, only if you use your tongue,” Greg joked. He received a sly grin in response. “Wait, I was joking — you know what happens to you when you eat too much sugar, love.”   
“I dunno, maybe a bit of extra energy won’t go amiss?”   
“Oh, really now? Seems like I could let you have a treat this time, then,” Greg said suggestively. 

Mycroft leaned in and nuzzled Greg’s neck, giving him a quick kiss behind the ear. “A messy dragon just won’t do,” he whispered. “I think I’ll have to see to that. Make sure you’ve cleaned up nicely. Good thing I’m in the mood for something sweet.”   
“Myc,” Greg groaned, exhaling as Mycroft ran a paw along the side of his body.   
“Bedroom, shower,” Mycroft ordered. He gave a sensuous lick on the underside of Greg’s jaw as encouragement.   
Greg obliged immediately. Mycroft was rarely commanding, but when he was… it was exciting. Tantalisingly so. He shuffled out of the kitchen, acutely aware of Mycroft staring at his rear whilst he did so. He threw in a little extra sway as he went. 


	3. Cherry Jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg makes jam. 
> 
> Writted after a conversation with [ Copgirl1964 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964)

Greg had the pot on the heat, the jam reducing nicely. Mycroft enjoyed having some of his cherry paste with scones — mostly because Greg was sure not to add much sugar. He used apple and stevia for sweetness, and some treacle. Even though it was sugary, it was also strong and so it didn’t take much for the burnt sugar flavour. 

He looked over at the jam. It was starting to bulge. He frowned and tilted his head, rumbling curiously. It was only a split second before it spat that Greg realised what was about to happen. He managed to put a paw up to protect himself, but managed to get a huge splatter over the base of his neck and his paw. 

He growled and covered the pot. The hot jam stung a little on his neck — his paws were rather thick, thankfully, and not bothered. He instinctively reached up and pressed down on the pain, and then slouched when he realised that he’d used the sticky one. 

It was this moment when Mycroft arrived home. 

“Gregory I’m…” 

Greg turned to look, smiling brightly at his husband’s return, and lifted his paw in a hello. 

Mycroft paled - his silvery scales blanching to a pale white, and then took on a grey-greeny tinge. 

“Myc?”

Mycroft staggered and then clenched his jaw as his stomach lurched. Greg was at his side in an instant. 

“Myc, what’s wrong?”  
“Gregory,” he breathed. “have you called an ambulance?”

Greg started to panic. “What? No? Why? What’s wrong? What can I do?”  
“No, you’ve been stabbed!”  
“Huh?” Greg then looked down at himself and saw the red blood-looking jam. “Oh,” he laughed. “No, love. It’s cherry jam.”

Mycroft froze, and then looked up at him with a scowl. “What?”  
“Jam. See?” He then put his paw into his mouth, sucking the jam off far more suggestively than was required. 

He was pleased to see that Mycroft’s colour returned and he stood up straight again. Mycroft cleared his throat, face going red. “Right. Apologies.”  


Greg laughed. “No need. I thought I’d make you some for scones later.”   
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re not injured.”  
“Yeah. Me too. I can see why you decided against doing medicine.” 

Mycroft’s face went a deeper red. Greg smiled fondly and licked his nose. “I’m gonna need to get cleaned up. Can I borrow your tongue?”


	4. Drachenfutter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Copgirl1964](https://archiveofourown.org/users/copgirl1964)
> 
> Just a note: Dragons are telekinetic. They have essentially two "arms" they can use to mentally manipulate things. This is handy for four-legged creatures to carry things. Dexterity and strength is distance dependant, and essentially they have to be able to see it properly to manipulate it. 
> 
> When using their telekinesis, the prefix 'mi' is added to a verb to indicate it's done with their mind (mi as in mind)... much like how we use 'e' to prefix to things to indicate it's electronic.

Mycroft was outside, painting. He had his oils out, and was trying to capture the light on the ivy growing in the garden up the stone wall of the garage. 

He dropped his paw down in exasperation, and instantly toppled the large palette that was on top of his trolley over onto himself. He snorted and then sighed. 

He walked on two paws to the garage door, slid in, and searched for a cleaning towel. He found a box of Gregory’s things ready to be thrown out by the door, and so grabbed the red fabric on the top of the pile and started to wipe himself down. 

The mix of paints smeared everywhere, but eventually, with the help of methylated spirits, he was cleaned. The stone pathway took some more vigorous scrubbing with the rag, but he managed to get it paint-free again. 

He tossed the rag back on top of the pile, and went inside. He’d lost his motivation for painting. 

Two hours later, Gregory arrived home. 

“Hello darling, how was your day?”  
“Tiring. I’m just over it. I’m getting a beer.”

Mycroft nodded, and rumbled his sympathy. He listened as Greg opened the fridge and grumble-sigh. Mycroft made an inquiring noise.   
“No beers,” Greg explained.   
“Try the garage fridge.”  
“Oh, yeah.”

Mycroft remained where he was on the couch, happily awaiting Gregory’s return. 

He then heard a screeching roar that made him jump off the sofa. He stood up straight, worried, and called out, “Gregory?”

An angry growl echoed down the hall, followed by: “MYCROFT HOLMES!” 

The tone instantly drained Mycroft of colour, and made him curl. He was in trouble. 

Loud, banging footsteps sounded his husband’s return. He stood in the doorway, livid, snarling, and holding the red cloth. 

“What on earth have you done?”  
“I spilt my oil paints; I’m sorry Gregory, I did clean it up—”  
“Obviously!” he shouted, again brandishing the cloth.   
“S-so why are you angry?”  
“Why am I… why am I angry?”

Mycroft stood there silently, unable to answer. Somehow, this was the wrong thing to do. Greg growled at him, teeth bared.   
“You didn’t even bloody look, did you? Or did you just not care?”  
“What?”  
“It’s not important to you, so it’s not important at all, is that it?”  
“I don’t know what you’re—”  
“Are you seriously going to stand there and pretend that you, Mr Observation, didn’t notice that the thing you used to clean up was printed on? That it said ‘Arsenal’? Or perhaps that it was a human shirt shape? And did that not then register to you that it might be important?”

Mycroft started to go red, and he looked away. He had noticed those things, but he hadn’t thought it mattered. He’d been too focused on cleaning himself off and the path before it stained. 

“And look at it now! Covered in green and blue and yellow, and ripped up! I can’t believe you!”

Mycroft felt a flare of anger. He looked up, the red quickly fading away and leaving his silver colour. “Well, if it was so important, why was it tossed in the garage?!”  
“It wasn’t ‘tossed’! It was ‘stored’!”  
“Why was it all in a messed heap, then?!”  
“Because not everyone is as finicky about order as you are!”

Mycroft snorted. “There’s being untidy and then there’s giving clear indicators of indifference!”  
“Oh, there you go, brandishing the long words in your superior attitude…”  
“I’m not—”  
“Why can’t you just apologise without making a big fuss?”  
“I do apologise for ruining your shirt, but it’s not entirely my fault, is it?”  
“I don’t need to submit planning permits to store things in our garage while I refurbish the cabinet! It’s not any fault of mine that my husband decided to be inconsiderate!”  
“And it’s not my fault that I used something looking like a rag in where we keep the rags!” 

Mycroft was snarling too by now, also showing his teeth. They kept their eyes locked on each other. He didn’t like conflicts, but the aggression triggered his need to stand up for himself. If Greg had been a sobbing mess instead, he would have certainly been compassionate and comforted him. It felt unreasonable to be shouted at for an honest mistake. 

Greg sneered, ready to roar something at him, teeth still peeking out, when he sighed through his nostrils and then snorted for good measure. He just shook his head and muttered, “you just don’t care about what matters to me, do you,” before tossing the cloth on the ground and storming off. 

“Greg, wait, I do care.”  
Greg stopped and swung his head around. “If you did, it would have registered to you before you ruined something important to me.”

Mycroft didn’t respond, watching his husband’s lean grey form disappear up the stairs, followed by a slamming door. He looked at the ruined Arsenal jersey and groaned. 

~

Mycroft had an hour before he was due to fly back home from Germany. He’d settled some issues regarding the finance tensions with some of the European countries, despite his mind being elsewhere. He felt so guilty for ruining one of his husband’s treasured possessions, and the upset cold-shoulder he was still getting hurt him deeply. 

He knew it was only natural for Gregory to be angry still; it was only two days ago, after all. But he’d noticed the distance between them like a thorn in his paw. 

He was passing down a street when he noticed something in the shop window. His eyes widened, and he rushed inside. He observed the options of the particular item available, settled for one he thought Gregory would love the most, and bought it. 

The human lady serving him had chuckled at him, but it was done good-naturedly. Apparently, whilst being traditionally a human purchase, she’d seen many dragons in buying something from her collection for their partners. 

It was night when Mycroft arrived home. He knew it was late, and hoped that Gregory was in a better mood than when he’d left yesterday. Mycroft had the gift hovering securely in front of him where he could see it. He knew better than to try and replace the Arsenal shirt; no matter what he picked, it’d be wrong, and Mycroft honestly couldn’t withstand learning enough about football to understand why. 

“Gregory? Darling?” he called as he walked inside. The light was on in the lounge, and so he put his suitcase and umbrella by the door and mi-carried the gift with him as he approached. “Greg?”  
“Myc, you’re finally home.” 

Mycroft swallowed. His husband’s tone wasn’t encouraging. He cleared his throat. “How was your day?”  
“Fine.”  
“Good. Good. Well, I, uh, I’m sure that it was better than my day at least.” 

There wasn’t a response, but Mycroft heard a snort-sigh through the man’s nostrils. Instinctively, Mycroft sunk low and shuffled closer to where he’d be seen. He kept his head low as he looked at his husband.   
“I’m really sorry, love, about your shirt.”  
“I know, Mycroft,” Greg groaned.   
“I should have noticed, and asked you, before using it.”  
“Mhm,” Greg hummed, pursing his lips.  
“I know I can’t replace it,” he began, “but I hope this shows you how important you are to me.” 

He mi-lifted the box from beside the couch off the floor and towards Gregory. The man looked at it curiously, and used his paw to take it and read the tag on the fancy wrapping.   
“Drachenfutter,” Greg mumbled, and then looked up at Mycroft, confused.   
“Dragon food,” Mycroft translated.  
“Right.” Greg didn’t sound terribly impressed. “You know everything I eat is dragon food, right? Or are you implying I’m so stupid as to put valuables in the garage that I need food labelled to be sure I can eat it?”

Mycroft jumped upright. “No! No, no, I swear, no. It’s a German custom. A gift bought by a spouse, often chocolates, to apologise for a misdeed.”  
“Oh.” 

Greg nodded and pulled the wrapping off to reveal a large box of exquisite mixed chocolates and nougats. Mycroft watched intently as Greg lifted the lid and sniffed inside.   
“They smell amazing,” Greg said, and it relieved the knot in Mycroft’s chest.   
“I’m glad. I picked the nougat ones since that’s your favourite. The chocolates have a lot of liqueurs in them.”  
“But you don’t like the liqueur ones.”   
“No, but it’s not for me, it’s for you. Completely and entirely.”  
“Really?” Greg smirked at him. “Because every time you’ve bought me chocolates, you end up eating at least half of them.”

Mycroft shook his head and put a paw on his chest. “I swear, these are all for you. You deserve them and more.” 

A smile broke out on Greg’s face; fond, loving, and warm. It made Mycroft melt.   
“Come here, you,” he said to him, putting the box down and reaching his arms out for a hug. Mycroft scuttled forward immediately into the embrace. “I can’t stay mad at you, sunshine,” Greg uttered as he cuddled Mycroft.   
“I’m relieved. And sorry.”  
“I know you are, love. It’s just sad that it’s gone after all this time. But you’re still the most important thing in my life, you know that, right? And the fact that you’re willing to watch me eat all of these in front of you without taking any shows me how much I mean to you too.” 

Mycroft nodded into Greg’s grey, shiny fur. He loved the soft, gentle stroke down his neck.   
“I hope you at least included some that you like,” Greg said softly. “Of course I’m going to share with my amazing husband. Always.”  
“I did. They’re, just, uh… in my own box of chocolates.”

Greg laughed deeply. “Oh, you incorrigible dragon.” 


	5. Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [ Black_Dawn ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_dawn) who requested a misunderstanding with a happy ending!

Mycroft tapped his tail. Gregory wasn't anywhere in the house, and hadn't left a note to say where he was.

He had to admit that he _was_ home an hour and a half early, and so Greg's absence wasn't exactly unwarranted. They were having a special date evening tonight, though, and Mycroft had hoped they could spend some time being 'distracted' before having to leave. 

He picked up his phone and called Greg. 

"Hey, sorry, I can't talk right now, I'm getting blown." 

Mycroft blinked as his heart sank and his stomach lurched. He shook and hung up. Gregory couldn't have recognised his number if that's how he answered the phone. Mycroft whimpered, tears filling his eyes, and tossed the phone away across the room. 

He sniffled and squeal-whined, rumbled and moaned, as his silvery scales turned blue. He curled up on the bed and cried. 

~

Half an hour later, Greg arrived home. 

"Myc? You're home early!" Greg shouted as he walked into the hall. 

Mycroft was still hurting, curled up under the covers. He didn't respond. 

"Myc? Where are you?"

He could hear the tapping of his husband's claws on the hardwood floors downstairs, and then the padding as the man walked up the stairs, complete with the usual swish and thud of his muscular tail. 

"Myc?" 

Gregory was at the doorway now. Mycroft peeked his nose out from under the covers, and then lifted his head enough to see the grey dragon standing before him (albeit blurry, from the tears). Hewhimpered high-pitched. 

Greg tilted his head, his bright demeanour fading. Anger and hurt suddenly raged up inside, and his scales drifted from blue to red. He snarled, keeping his eyes fixed on Greg. 

"Whoa, sweetheart, what's wrong?"  
"What's wrong? Don't insult me. I know I'm hardly a catch, but I do have _feelings_."

Greg looked unsettled and stunned. "What?"  
"You can't expect me to be fine with your activities, regardless of how much beneath you I am in terms of attractiveness." 

Mycroft looked away and whimpered at the hurt, but then turned back to snarl at Greg.   
"I... what's going on?" Greg asked, still confused. 

Mycroft stood on the bed and growled. "You! So casually telling me you're cheating on me!"  
"What? No! Lord, no, why... how did you come to that conclusion?! I'd never cheat on you, love! Never! You're my everything and I resent you thinking so little about yourself - and that I'd think it too - that I'd do that!"  
"Then what was that phone call?"  
"What phone call?"  
"Stop playing dumb, Gregory!" Mycroft roared. "Half and hour ago!"

Mycroft had fresh tears in his eyes, and faded back to blue as he flopped down on the bed, head resting still looking at Greg. 

Greg frowned, and then his eyes blew wide. "Myc," he said gently, walking closer. "I was at the groomer's. I got a good clean for tonight's special date; shampoo, conditioner, brushing, and a _blow dry_. I wanted to look nice for you."  
"W-what?"  
"I meant I was getting blow-dried."   
"Blow dried."  
"Yeah." Greg padded up and began to stroke Mycroft's head. "I am the lucky one to have you, you know, you great dunce. I thank whatever higher power there is that I have you. I'm never giving that up." 

Mycroft saw how genuine Greg was, and as he looked he noticed how shiny and sleek his husband looked. His face flushed pink with embarrassment. Greg merely smiled, not getting angry at the insinuation, and pressed a kiss on his nose. 

"Come on, love. You'll need a shower yourself before we go out."  
Mycroft nodded and shuffled closer to bury his nose into his love's coat. "I'm sorry," he mumbled into the warmth. "I'm so sorry."  
"Hey, it's fine. I should have been more clear. It was just a bit difficult when you called. We'll just chalk it up to a misunderstanding, and leave it at that."  
"I love you, Greg."  
"And I love you, Myc. Now get your scaly bum into the shower."   
"Can't I cuddle with you instead?"  
"And ruin this furdo?" 

Mycroft looked up at Greg with his signature wide, pleading eyes. They were nothing on his husband's irresistible puppy-dog-eyes, but it worked a treat on Greg. His grey dragon laughed at him and then nuzzled him before sliding himself into the bed as well. 


	6. Football

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [ Sirius_Blue ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirius_blue)

Mycroft looked on from his perch up the great oak. Gregory was _still_ kicking the ball about. He’d gone running around the park first, and then started playing football with himself. 

Greg had tried hard to encourage him to join the run, but Mycroft had darted up the nearest tree and refused. When he said he enjoyed joining Greg for his run, he meant as an observer. Gregory was delicious to watch: his muscles moved enticingly as he gracefully galloped, his long neck and tail undulating elegantly as his sleek fur rippled in the wind. 

Mycroft, on the other hand, looked like a fish trying to hurl itself back into the water when he ran. Gregory had denied it, but it just wasn’t in his genes to be running about. No; it was much better to conserve his strength for important things — like finding the perfect vantage point to watch Gregory run. 

He did not, however, anticipate his energetic husband to then get out a football and start kicking it about the trees in the park. Mycroft looked on, the appeal lost to him. He just wanted to go back home. He wouldn’t ever stop Gregory from having fun, but it was tiresome sometimes to have a furred dragon as a husband sometimes. They did enjoy their exercise. 

Mycroft excelled at doing nothing for extended periods of time. Gregory would get restless quickly. That’s not to say Mycroft didn’t do any exercise — he knew it was necessary to try and stay in shape. He was naturally better at the strength exercises than cardio, and lightning quick in his reflexes. Most scaled dragons were. 

“It’d be more fun if you’d kick the ball back, Myc,” Greg said as he sat at the base of the tree, looking up.   
“I have no doubt it would be, for you.”  
“Please come play with me.”  
“No.”  
“Darling, please.” Greg puffed out his lower lip and made is eyes infinitesimally larger somehow. 

Mycroft tensed and looked away. “No, no, that’s not fair. Don’t do that.”   
He flickered his eyes back, and saw that Greg had stood up to rest both front paws on the tree trunk, his nose stretching up towards him. Those shining, pleading orbs stared into his soul. 

He snarled and rolled his eyes. “You play dirty, Greg Lestrade-Holmes.”

Greg beamed and jumped back onto all fours. Mycroft slunk down onto the ground, huffing. A flash of grey went past him, and the next thing Mycroft knew, a ball was hurtling in his direction. It bounced cleanly off his shoulder; Mycroft was glad he was very sturdy. 

He watched as Greg stood before him, tail wagging behind him, waiting for the ball. His husband was such a child sometimes, but his good mood was infectious. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile and knock the ball back to him. 

In little time, Mycroft forgot to carry the weight of the world for a while.


	7. Flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Camillo

Greg groaned as his stomach clenched painfully. He hated being sick. 

“I told you this would happen,” Mycroft said without scorn as he wiped the sweat off Greg’s brow.   
“I couldn’t just leave the kids alone, now, could I?”  
“No. But you didn’t need to scoop them all up into a close circle and read to them.” 

Greg sighed through his nostrils. He didn’t respond, but just closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Mycroft’s paw running through his fur.   
“I know you wouldn’t have done anything else,” Mycroft told him gently. “You’re that caring.”  
“I’m glad you’re the one caring for me right now.”

Mycroft smiled warmly. He then squished the water out of the flannel in the bucket he had, and pressed the compress back onto Greg’s forehead.   
“I will always care for you,” he told him softly. 

Greg rumbled happily as Mycroft pressed a kiss on his snout.   
“On the one hand, I hate you and your immune system keeping you out of this hell. On the other, I’m glad you won’t get sick so you can take care of me.”  
Mycroft chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re that vindictive.”  
“No, I don’t really,” Greg laughed. “I’m just jealous.”  
“It has its perks.”

Greg whimpered and grabbed his stomach. Mycroft soothingly started to run his paw in circles over it, the motion calming the war going on inside.   
“Though when you get sick, you do get _really_ sick,” Greg added.   
“The drawback of such an aggressive immune system, I’m afraid. Let’s be thankful that it’s strong enough to resist a lot.” 

He was dizzy and tired, all of his muscles ached, and he kept shivering and sweating from fever. Greg just lay back and closed his eyes while Mycroft tended to him softly. 

“You should drink some more, and try to eat something.”  
“Not thirsty, and definitely can’t stomach anything solid.”  
“You don’t want to become dehydrated.”

Greg looked up at him and whimpered. “I really don’t want to just give my body more to eject.”   
“You’ll only get worse if you don’t, even if the experience of vomiting is unpleasant.”   
He whimpered again, knowing Mycroft was right, and once again found himself jealous of his husband. “Wish I didn’t vomit so easily, like you.”   
“I admit, the highly resilient gag reflex does have more perks than downfalls.”

Greg burst out laughing. _That_ he conceded, mostly because the perks were in his favour. “Stop it, you’ll make me horny and I’m not able to do anything about it.” 

Mycroft laughed loudly at that and pressed another kiss on his nose. “You really must be ill indeed.” 


	8. Soothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [ Bookjunkiecat ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat)

Mycroft had had a long day. It was obvious to Greg the moment he walked inside. His head was hung low, he was dull in colour, and his tail dragged behind him. 

Greg nuzzled him softly, reassuringly, as form of a greeting. They didn’t need words to express comfort. Mycroft nuzzled back and rumble-whined. 

Greg pressed his nose to Mycroft’s, and then licked it briefly. Mycroft sighed through his nostrils and turned to walk up the stairs. Greg whimpered low as he watched his husband go. 

He heard the sound of the shower a moment later. Mycroft obviously wasn’t interested in eating dinner. Greg quietly padded up the stairs, and sat by the door. 

He had better hearing than Mycroft, and could make out muffled cries through the door. It broke his heart. He wanted to go in, he wanted to step into the shower and hold his big lounge lizard until it was ok again… but he knew Mycroft needed a little space sometimes. 

When Mycroft emerged, Greg just looked at him with understanding eyes, and pressed their foreheads together. It didn’t matter what had happened; all that mattered was that Greg was here now for him. 

Mycroft shuffled and curled up in the bed. Greg snuggled in behind him and held him close. He used his thumb to stroke along Myc’s belly scales. Occasionally he’d run his paw up and rest it on the orange plates over Mycroft’s chest, since he always found that reassuring. 

Mycroft was still restless, and so Greg started to hum a lullaby to him. The slow rumble of his voice usually soothed Mycroft; it was one of the things Myc had said he loved listening to. Mycroft was essentially tone-deaf, and so never joined in whenever Greg sang, but occasionally hummed in unison. 

He hummed a gentle tune, one from Mycroft’s playlist of emotional themes, that was sung like a hummed lullaby. He ran his fingers over Mycroft’s cheek as he did, smiling as the blue eyes closed before him. 

Mycroft’s body relaxed slowly, and so Greg rested his chin on Mycroft’s neck and continued to hum the tune. Mycroft’s tail slid around his and embraced it gently. 

“Tomorrow will be a better day, love,” he whispered as Mycroft’s breathing evened out below him. 


	9. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [ Em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73)
> 
> This one earns its rating, guys. Gay dragon smut ahead.

“Oh Gregory, yes, that’s so good.”

Greg hummed and licked over Mycroft’s entrance, his tongue just peeking inside the slit. It drove Mycroft wild. 

“How do you want it, love?”  
“In… inside me.” 

Greg nuzzled and kissed Mycroft’s cloaca. “Docking or…?”

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically. Greg ran his paws up over Mycroft’s pink-tinged belly, and back down along the sides. He snaked his head up, pressing soft kisses as he went along Mycroft’s chest plates. 

“I love you so much,” he breathed before kissing him. 

His body tingled as Mycroft carded his fingers through Greg’s fur. He let out a moan and tilted his head back, enjoying. 

“I love you too, Gregory.”   
“Oh that’s nice.”  
“Yeah? How about here?”

Mycroft ran his paws forward and started to massage Greg’s chest.  
“Oh, yes.”

Greg knew Mycroft already knew what he liked, but it was all a part of the enjoyment to ask. He rolled his shoulders and placed his paws opposed Mycroft’s chest, grumbling with bliss as his husband massaged the strong pectoral muscles. 

Greg rocked his hips, his long member sliding up the base of Mycroft’s tail and over his entrance. Mycroft groaned, moaned, and writhed enthusiastically at each tantalising tease. 

“Please,” he breathed. “I need you. I need to feel you against me, inside me.” 

Greg rumbled with his mouth open, the sound sharper, and licked up Mycroft’s neck.  
“You’re so gorgeous like this; laying before me, spread, all red and flushed.” 

Mycroft yelped, high-pitched, as the head of Greg’s cock slid against the bump of his protruding member.   
“Can’t keep it in, eh?” he murmured, joking.   
Mycroft shook his head and whined through his nose. “Too hard.”  
“That’s what I like to hear.”

Greg rumbled and nuzzled into Mycroft below him, pressing the tip inside Mycroft’s entrance. His husband’s breath caught and he grabbed a hold of his forearms (without his claws). Greg pressed down slowly, moaned loudly as the hot, wet warmth engulfed him. 

Mycroft’s face was of utter bliss, eyes closed and relaxed. Greg pressed his nose to his husband’s and flicked his tongue out to lick it. 

“Move, Greg, please… move.”

He obliged, drawing his cock out and shivering as the tender skin brushed against the bumps on the bottom of Mycroft’s cock. He pressed back in, harder, shaking as he tried to control himself. He was only buried half way, up to the rib, and the head of his long cock was pressed up against Mycroft’s sphincter. 

Mycroft rocked his hips, curling his tail around Greg’s as an anchor to thrust upwards. Greg moved slowly, knowing his husband adored the drawn-out, sensuous movements more when docking. 

He couldn’t help but moan after each thrust, his body moving up and down lengthways more than actual thrusting with his hips, causing Mycroft to rock up and down on the bed. Greg kissed him again, their tongues lapping at each other. Mycroft ran paws through his hair, along his neck, up around his shoulders, and down his chest. It was ecstasy. 

“Fuck I love you, Myc. I love feeling you around me. I love you touching me. Oh, oh, it’s so good love, so good.” 

Mycroft answered in bitten-off moans and whimpers. He licked Greg’s cheek.  
“Bond with me,” he uttered. “I want you to bury yourself as deep as possible and bond with me.” 

Greg swallowed and nodded. He thrust once more, ensuring there was enough lubrication, and then pressed down harder, breaching Mycroft’s hole. 

Mycroft cried out and shivered, stretching his neck backwards. Greg nuzzled the soft flesh under his jaw, pressing kisses all over.

They were both panting heavily when Greg had pressed himself to the hilt. He leant forward and pressed his forehead against Mycroft’s, initiating the Bond. Their minds touched and wove together, sensory input became shared between them and they lost sense of their own bodies — it was all a mix of pleasure from all over in a cloud of togetherness. 

Greg rocked, sliding himself inside Mycroft’s body, as his mind stroked and tantalised Mycroft’s. His husband ground against him, and he could feel his cock pulsing in anticipation. 

Mycroft’s mind was all lime juice and chilli, wrapping around his own and setting fire to his senses and warming his core. He felt the desperation, the crescendo, as they moved together as one. 

“Hold on, baby,” Greg uttered, feeling Mycroft ready to explode. “Not yet.”

He felt the bliss the order and restraint gave to Mycroft, the electric hum that grew as anticipation increased. Greg was almost there, reassuring Myc with his warm chocolate touch of mind, and the undercurrent of a pear sorbet threading through to tease him. 

Greg lay down completely, pressing his chest against Mycroft’s and slid his arms around Mycroft’s to hold him tightly. Their tails remained entwined, and their necks lay next to each other, hot breath in their ears. 

He rocked, trembling, feeling his body tense. He panted, he squealed, he moaned… and then, just as he felt he was on the edge, whispered, “Now, Myc.”

Mycroft came with a loud grumble, clasping onto Greg only barely managing without unsheathing claws. His semen was warm and coated Greg’s cock, spurting out between them and causing their contact point to become sticky. Greg released himself deep inside Mycroft’s body, pulsing and pulsing. His balls squeezed all they could to give to his husband, and he could feel the filling sensation through their bond. 

Their minds held tight as they fell into white oblivion, falling, falling, with nowhere to land. They swirled together through the orgasm, the pulsing aftershocks of their bodies uplifting them to drift further. 

After some minutes, they released their minds and came back to themselves. They both were still panting, but were overwhelmed with peace and warmth. Greg pulled out, gone soft and limp, andcome spilled out of Mycroft’s entrance as he did. 

“Fantastic,” he breathed, and collapsed on the bed beside Mycroft.  
“Amazing,” Mycroft responded, trailing a finger over Greg’s forehead. “My wonderful husband.” 

Greg hummed deeply, happily, and snuggled up next to Mycroft. They’d clean up later. 


	10. CCTV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [ Copgirl ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964)

Mycroft was a mix of terrified and aroused as he watched the screen. On it was CCTV, live, showing his husband clad in full gear and directing a team into a building to apprehend a kidnapping group. 

Gregory looked so in control, so muscular, so enticing… Mycroft almost forgot that he was in company. The only reason stopping him embarrassing himself was that there was the very real possibility that his darling husband could get hurt. 

He worried his lip, eyes glued to the screen, as Greg darted inside with a graceful leap, the tip of his tail flicking ever so slightly. 

“Sir, is everything ok?” 

Mycroft turned to glance at Anthea, and nodded. “Please handle the Croatia incident without me,” he said, his voice strained. “You’re more than capable and I have my attention elsewhere.”

The human woman was exceptional at her job. She just nodded at him, casting a knowing look at the screen, and left. 

The tension immediately eased out of his body when he saw Gregory emerge from the building, triumphant, ordering his team to take the men away. 

Without the terror, Mycroft let himself oggle his husband freely. The commanding nature, mixed with his black vest and sunglasses for god’s sake — it was driving Mycroft wild. 

His interest grew, but he had to remind himself that he was at work and thus shouldn’t do anything about it. He still had several hours until he could go home. 

Then Gregory rolled his shoulders, showing off the sheer strength in them, and shook his body giving his head a dramatic flick that caused his fringe to flip over. He then looked directly into the camera and wiggled his eyebrows. Devil. 

“Anthea,” Mycroft called out. “Please reschedule all of my activities for today. I’m going home early.”


	11. Sport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Paia

Greg was bouncing the football on his head, and then on his forearms, and then back on his head. 

“You’ll give yourself a headache,” Mycroft commented from behind his newspaper.   
“Nah,” Greg responded cheerfully. “I’ve got a thick head.”

Mycroft chose not to comment. 

“No you don’t Greg, you’re really smart Greg,” his husband called out, indignant but playful.   
“See, you know these things, therefore you don’t need me to tell you.” Mycroft smiled and put down his paper. “Is there any particular reason you have a ball in the living room?”   
“Match on tomorrow. Gotta practice.”  
“And how are you going to accurately practice indoors?”  
“I want to be with you.”

Mycroft mi-lifted his coffee and took a sip. “A lovely sentiment but I fear you’re not actually practicing. If you like, I can go out on the grounds with you.”

Greg stopped and mi-held the ball where it was. “Seriously?”   
“Of course, love.”

Greg beamed and rushed outside. Mycroft chuckled good-naturedly and followed him. 

Just as Mycroft was looking for a good spot to lounge in the sun, the ball came hurtling towards him. He managed to duck his head in time, and snorted at his husband. 

“You’ve gotta at least _try_ to block it, love.”  
“Why on earth would I? Or rather, why on earth would you think I would?”  
“You said you’d come out with me.”  
“Yes, to _watch_.”

Greg slumped. “But I’ve gotta practice kicking goals.”   
“No. I’m not standing here while you hurtle balls at me.”  
“Please?”

Mycroft quickly shut his eyes and looked away. He was not letting his husband’s puppy-dog eyes get him this time. 

He settled himself in a nice sunny spot on the grass, tucking his legs in and his tail around him. “You may practice running after the ball instead while I’m here.”  
“You just want to watch me.”  
“I’m not concealing that fact,” Mycroft cajoled. “Do a few laps and I’ll consider playing with you.”

Greg was about to start running when he stopped and eyed him suspiciously. “Is this another one of your ‘I considered it but concluded not to’ deals?”

Mycroft shot him a sly look. “You do your running with that ball, and then I’ll play with your two other ones.” 

_That_ got Greg trotting along. Mycroft sniggered as he noticed Greg had left the football behind him. 


	12. Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [ Mer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321)

“I’m bored.”  
“We’ve barely started.”  
“And you’ve barely made a move.”  
“It’s called strategy, my darling.”

Greg grumbled and sunk lower so his head rested on the table. He snorted and huffed, much to his husband’s derision. 

“Why do you need to strategy, anyway?”

Mycroft’s eye twitched at his improper English. “Because that’s how you play chess, Gregory.”  
“But it’s so boring.”  
“It’s a game of the mind.”  
“I regret agreeing to play.”

Mycroft groaned and moved his piece. Greg perked up and immediately moved his knight. He then looked at Mycroft expectantly. His husband just hummed as his icy blue eyes stared at the board. 

Greg sighed and flopped back down. He did that last time, and then spent the next fifteen minutes staring, his brain calculating. He didn’t know why Mycroft had actually wanted to play with him. It could have been a revenge for making him watch the football match last week, but Mycroft generally wasn’t spiteful like that. 

“Interesting,” Mycroft mused, sitting back and raising his head higher.   
“Is it? Is it really?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft huffed, ignoring Greg. “I generally get a good sense of how to play by reading the player, much like I do at work. You are excellent at concealing your game plan from me.”

Greg sat upright and looked at Mycroft. “You _do_ realise my game plan is to move anything anywhere, right?”  
Mycroft looked at him and tilted his head. “I don’t understand.”

Greg laughed. “All this time you’ve been trying to work out what my big battle plan was?”   
“Well, of course.”  
“Darling.” Greg shook his head and continued to laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m literally just moving the first piece I see, hoping this game will end soon.”

Mycroft flushed pinky red. “Oh,” he mumbled.   
Greg chuckled still and reached out to stroke his paw. “So really, there’s not much point playing against me, love. We can leave it and do something else.”

“Ok,” Mycroft agreed slowly. “Because I honestly had no idea how you were winning.”


	13. Declaration of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For MyAngloFiles

“Hey Myc, what’s in these boxes?”

“Just some things from the spare room that I’m going to go through. I feel like having a good clean out.”

 

Greg sniffed the pile of boxes in the living room. He snaked his way along them, running his nose around them. They were old; some from twenty years ago, some from ten, and a couple from about five. 

 

The older of the ones had come from Mycroft’s parents’ place, the musty dirt wafting from them indicative of the Holmes’ family cottage. Fabric, old paper, plastic — childhood keepsakes, perhaps? Or, maybe a collection from Myc’s childhood until his university days. 

 

The mid-age ones had only been in Mycroft’s residence, but the stale smell with a fading hint of lavender suggested they’d been in the cupboard for some time. It smelled like plastic and wires. Tapes? 

 

The newer of the boxes also had the faint electrical smell. The lavender was stronger, and the cardboard not as degraded and musty. Greg pressed his nose into the top, detecting traces of oil and turpentine. 

 

“Home movies?” Greg asked, putting his paws on the boxes. 

“I don’t have your nose, darling,” Mycroft hummed. “I don’t remember what’s in them. Surveillance tapes more likely, if you can smell something.”

 

Greg opened the box and was met with, as Mycroft had suggested, surveillance tapes. He rifled through until he found one that seemed out of place. 

“I want to see this one.”

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow at him, but agreed. The tape started playing on the screen, to show Sherlock’s pale face close up. Sherlock then finished placing the camera and smirked into it. He was a good deal younger, but still had those ridiculously prominent cheekbones and icy ices. He kept his mane a lot scruffier back then, Greg reflected. 

 

“You’re gonna see how you like it, Mycroft,” the Sherlock on the tape said. He then leapt away with the same grace as a cat. 

 

The tape cut to Mycroft walking into the room, stumbling. He wandered about as he swayed, and noticed the camera. He walked up to it and sighed. Clearly, he was rather drunk. 

 

“Sherlock,” film-Mycroft said. 

“When was this?” Greg asked, but Mycroft had suddenly gone still and pink. “Myc?”

“Uhhh… we don’t have to watch this.”

“Why?”

“It’s, uh, just, uh…”

 

“Sssshhhherlock! Stop ssssspying on me. I only do it t’you causse you neeeeeed it,” film-Mycroft cooed. “Though, lot less nowadays, isn’t it?”

 

Greg chuckled and stopped his husband from turning it off. 

 

“You got that sexy detective now, don’t you?” film-Mycroft continued. 

 

“This is just when we’d met, was it?” Greg asked to the still-pink Mycroft. Mycroft nodded. 

 

“You don’t appreshiate him!” Film-Mycroft waved a paw about. “He’s so kind to you ’n so hanssssome, and lets you help him and and has a body like the godsss and and you… you insult him!” 

 

Mycroft sunk into himself as Greg giggled. 

 

Film Mycroft turned sombre. “You dunno how good you have it, Shhhherlock. Sherly Sherly Sherlock, alwayss never thinking about otherss. He’ll get annoyed at you one day, you know? And then where’ll I be? I won’ get ta talk to him anymore!” 

 

“Awh, love, look how much you cared,” Greg teased. 

 

“I love him!” film-Mycroft suddenly shouted. He then started to sob. “I bloody love him an’ I can’t say anything because you need him an’ he’d never want someone like me. Look after him well, Sherlock, please, please look after him.” 

 

Greg was struck with how heartfelt the words had been. He looked at Mycroft, who was still pink to the tips of his ears. “You never said.”

“He needed you more than I.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Greg said, indicating to the curled-up form of Mycroft from a decade ago. “But things worked out well for you, didn’t it?” 

 

Mycroft nodded and licked Greg’s nose tentatively. “If we could show him a video of us now, he wouldn’t believe it.”

“Because time travel and all that?”

“Putting that aside. He might assume you’re just being coerced.”

 

Greg snorted playfully. Mycroft was indeed cynical and needed _a lot_ of convincing that Greg’s affections were genuine. His poor husband had such low self esteem back then. It had improved a great deal, but still wasn’t what Greg would like. 

 

“Well, I guess that’d depend on the video. There are some things we could send that would give no doubt about how much I love you.” 

 

Greg chuckled when Mycroft’s blush intensified and his eyes flickered downwards. 


	14. Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Lav](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_and_vanilla)

Greg knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he ordered from the café. They were having lunch with John and Sherlock, and Greg was out for some revenge. 

 

Well, maybe not ‘revenge’, but something akin to it. John and Sherlock both deserved it, and they knew why. 

 

Greg sat himself next to his husband and pecked a kiss on his cheek. 

 

“Gregory, I told you not to order me anything sweet,” Mycroft said as the plate of creamy pastries and cakes was put down on the table before them. 

“I didn’t. I ordered myself some sweet things, and you got your salad like you asked.”

 

Mycroft’s face was hilariously torn between being happy he got what he ordered, and indignation that his husband was going to eat those treats in front of him. 

“You want them, don’t you? Good thing I ordered enough.”

 

“Yes, Mycroft, eat them all and Graham will have to roll you out the door,” Sherlock sneered, not looking at them. John elbowed him in the ribs, but said nothing. 

“Don’t worry love, it doesn’t count if you’re licking it off me.”

 

Greg turned smugly to Sherlock after saying it, who looked disgusted. Good. 

 

“Please not while I eat,” Sherlock hissed.

“What’s that Sherlock? Too much evidence that your brother actually is loved?”

“I said he ate too much.” 

“No no, you said Mycroft makes a show of eating junk and if he kept it up no one would love him, and I told you if you wanted a show, I’d give you one.” Greg fixed him with a glare. “So you’re going to sit there and watch what a _real_ show is.” 

 

Greg scooped the cream off an eclair and put it towards Mycroft’s mouth. He had gone pink, but smiled as he saw Greg’s loving expression. He was chaste with how carefully he licked it off. 

 

“Well I’m not eating now.” 

“Sherlock you’re going to get food in you,” John huffed, and pushed the detective’s toasted cheese sandwich closer. “You promised.”

“Yes, you did indeed promise to be here, didn’t you?” Greg sang. He then picked up a large dollop of cookies-and-cream icing and smeared it on Mycroft’s neck. 

 

He made sure his licking it off was overly sexual, slurping and humming. 

“Gregory!” 

“Relax, love. No one can see. Anthea made sure,” he mumbled. Mycroft’s body relaxed immediately. “Can’t share all this sexy, now can I?”

“I would never share you,” Mycroft retorted. 

“Never? Not even if we invited someone over to play?”

“I’m a very possessive man, Gregory.”

“And I _love_ it. Not even willing to show someone just how possessive?”

 

Mycroft looked at Greg slyly. “Depends who, and over what.” He reached over and took a cupcake. “This is mine, and I’m not sharing.”

“Oi, no, not like that.”

“If you want it, then you should try take it.”

“And what if I’m caught trying to steal your cupcake? Will I be punished?”

“Maybe. You remember last week.”

“I think I’d like that, so not really a punishment, is it? That didn’t work for your ice cream very effectively.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft slowly bit into his cupcake. “I might have to punish you a bit… harder.”

 

“Oh please, _stop_ ,” Sherlock groaned. 

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” Greg asked innocently. 

“Enough with these images in my mind. John, I have to go scrub my brain.”

 

Sherlock stood and made to leave, but noticed that he’d been locked out on the little private balcony. “We’re locked out!” 

“You can leave during the intermission, if you like,” Greg said with a huff. “Besides, you haven’t touched your food.” 

 

John continued to look at him affronted, but Greg ignored him. _Serves him right for agreeing with Sherlock, even if just to shut him up._ Sherlock threw himself back down in a huff. 

“At least this won’t last long, given how much my brother can’t stop inhaling sweets.” 

 

Mycroft, emboldened by Greg’s attitude, picked up the eclair and slowly slid it into his mouth, downing the entire thing in one go. Greg noticed that he’d started drooling once Mycroft licked his lips, flicking a final bit of cream with his pink tongue. 

 

Greg couldn’t stop himself from kissing him passionately. “There’s my confident dragon,” he mumbled into Mycroft’s mouth. His heart swelled with pride over seeing his husband giving Sherlock the metaphorical finger, finally. 

 

“You are going to use that skill later,” he rumbled low. “So don’t fill up on too many creamy things to ruin your appetite.” 

“Greg is this really necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

 

“You are spectacular and loved no matter what you eat, or what people say,” he whispered to Mycroft loud enough for company to hear. “And I will make sure anyone who says otherwise regrets it.”


	15. Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for Luke

Greg’s fur was soft, and Mycroft loved to snuggle into it. He’d often find himself stroking Greg with his nose, or his paws, without realising it. The sensation was soothing and tended to lull him into a daze. 

His husband seemed to enjoy it as well, purring softly deep in his chest whenever Mycroft cuddled him close and stroked through the silver fur. 

He regretted not having a good ability to feel things with a lot of his body. His chest plates were softer than they looked, but still hard enough to not feel gentle touch. While he did love feeling Greg pressing down on them and stroking, it just wasn’t the same as wanting to feel the soft tickle of Greg’s fluff. The larger, tough scales on Mycroft’s back didn’t give much sensation; it was good in some respects, but not for rubbing himself up against Greg’s body and feeling it.

Mycroft preferred to be the big spoon for this reason: his belly scales, despite being strong, were small and highly sensitive. Strangely they also weren’t very receptive to pain, which he was glad about — he could feel the textures he lay on without being hurt by rocks or whatever else pointy he happened to lay on. 

Greg’s belly hide was much the same, he’d been told, and so didn’t have a problem with Mycroft’s spines when their roles were reversed. Or during other, more active, activities. It was just as sensitive to touch though, which was why Greg rumbled happily as Mycroft stroked his belly. 

He was almost in a trance when his paw drifted lower and encountered something spongey. He awoke and tested the contact, being sure he’d actually felt it. He swallowed and moved his paw back, noting the encroaching of the solid mass. 

Mycroft licked Greg’s ear. It flicked automatically and Greg chuckled. He smiled and licked it again, rumbling and nuzzling Greg’s jawbone. 

Yes, he loved cuddling his soft husband — but also loved it when said husband became harder. 


End file.
